Cold Feet
by Death'sDarkAngel
Summary: After Sherlock nearly drowns on a case and ends up with hypothermia, he and John are forced to contemplate what they really mean to each other.
1. Chapter 1

My eternal thanks to my darling best friend, Captain Evil, for being my guinea pig and sounding board.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes. Sadly. And I'm also not a doctor, so don't take what I say as proper medical procedure...

* * *

**Cold Feet**

Sherlock gave a sigh of contentment as he snuggled closer to his pillow. He couldn't remember being this comfortable or warm in a long time.

"Mmm…"

It was just a fleeting sound, but almost bordered on a sleepy moan. Now _that_ brought his brain fully back online. Fighting the urge to panic, Sherlock took note of his surroundings before opening his eyes. _Soft bed, silky sheets—definitely his own bed, but not his pillow—firmer but…nice. Warmth; the smell of tea, wool (sheep in the rain?), spicy cologne—all of the smells he associated with _home_; arms around him—John_. John was in his bed. Nearly naked, he assumed as he could feel so much of his own skin pressed against his doctor. Needing to have visual proof as well, Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

They were lying facing each other, with Sherlock's head cradled in the crook of John's neck and shoulder. _Ah, that explains the near moan_—Sherlock's lips were ghosting over the sensitive scar tissue on the older man's left shoulder. Their arms were draped over the other's waist, holding their partner closer. Sherlock discovered that his right leg was thrown over John's hip and the doctor's left leg was wedged between his own—his thigh putting just the right amount of pressure on Sherlock's scrotum to feel deliciously arousing. He wiggled around slightly and looked down between their bodies and _Christ_, they were completely naked.

That was definitely a problem. Well, for Sherlock at least. If he didn't find some way to extricate himself from his current position, he was going to be incredibly embarrassed when John finally woke up. Sherlock thought back to the previous night, trying desperately to remember how they ended up like this—not that he was complaining, but he was sure that they had not partaken of carnal pleasures…oh. The case…

* * *

*****Nine Hours Earlier*****

"Damn it, Sherlock! Christ—John! Is he breathing?" Greg panted as he raced to the bank, skidding to a halt in the mud, nearly falling over the doctor.

At that precise moment, Sherlock took a great gasping breath the coughed the Thames out of his lungs.

John was so relieved, he nearly wept with joy. "Yes—yes! He's breathing! Thank God, but he's _freezing_. We need to get him warm before he succumbs to hypothermia."

"Ambulance is on its way—should be here any second!" Donovan shouted to Lestrade.

The doctor shrugged out of his jacket and tried to bundle Sherlock in it the best he could without letting the man out of his arms.

"J-j-j-john-n-n-n?" the consulting detective stuttered, eyes wide with fright as he reached up and grabbed his flat mate's bicep with a soggy gloved hand.

"Shh, shh! Its okay, Sherlock. You're okay. You're freezing, but you're okay. Ambulance is on its way," John reassured his best friend.

"Th-th-the sus-p-p-pect-t?" demanded the Holmes popsicle.

"In custody. We're bringing him in," Greg stated. "But for the love of God, Sherlock, can you for once _try_ not to get yourself killed?! It's a good thing John saw you go over the edge or we might not have found you in time, you great bloody idiot! Next time you seriously need to _wait_ for my team first before you go barging in!"

"W-would have g-g-got-ten aw-way—" Sherlock tried to explain, attempting to glare down the DI. The effect left something to be desired since he didn't look all that intimidating with his teeth chattering and his wet curls plastered down around his face and neck.

The ambulance finally arrived, saving them from further argument. Sherlock was wrapped in a heated blanket and the medics were telling John and Lestrade that they were going to take Sherlock to the A&E.

"N-n-n-n-no hosp-p-pitals!" demanded the man in question.

"Sherlock, you should go! You need to go," John insisted, barely able to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

"B-b-but _you're_ m-my doct-tor!"

Signing in resignation, John turned to the medics and told them, "I'm his doctor. I'll take full responsibility for him."

Without waiting to be asked, Lestrade had Donovan pull one of the cars around and helped John load Sherlock into the back seat.

"I'll call tomorrow," Greg declared as he slammed the cruiser's door shut. He saw the barest hint of a nod from the doctor before Sally peeled away from the river bank like a bat out of hell.

John had to give Donovan credit; despite being on the opposite side of London, she got them back to Baker Street in record time. Faster than John was sure was possible. Or safe, for that matter—though he did fully appreciate it nonetheless. She even helped him haul the frosty Sherlock up the seventeen steps to their flat.

"Anything else you need?" she asked hesitantly, not sure if further help from her would be accepted or wanted. Donovan knew that John felt that she was partially responsible for the mess that happened prior to The Fall, as they all referred to it secretly. After everything that came to light in the months after Sherlock's funeral, she had tried to make amends with the army doctor. She really had nothing against John—in fact she quite liked him. She just questioned his choice of companions. They would never be mates, but she was making a sincere effort for nothing but John's sake. To atone for her sins, she had even gone out of her way to be nicer to Sherlock upon his return—though the two still managed on occasion to jump down each other's throats on particularly bad days.

John shook his head, as he started to half drag Sherlock towards the bathroom. "No, that's it. Thank you, Sally. Just going to get him out of these wet clothes and try a gradual temperature increase shower."

She nodded then headed out the door, and called back over her shoulder, "Any time. If you need anything else tonight—or rather, this morning—call me. I'll be up."

John simply grunted in acknowledgment as he staggered into the bathroom room. He leaned Sherlock against the wall between the tub and the sink momentarily so that he could turn on the shower. He made sure the water wasn't too warm before turning his attention back to his friend. Without hesitation or preamble, he started peeling off Sherlock's wet layers. John hesitated at removing the younger man's pants, but knew that he would in the end have to take them off anyway, so off they went. Knowing that there was no way the genius could be left to his own devices, John striped down too before he pulled Sherlock into the tub with him.

"W-what are you d-d-doing, J-j-john?" Sherlock stammered, bewildered at the state of their mutual nudity.

"I can't have you take a bath because you'll most likely drown yourself. No offence, but since that's nearly already happened this evening, I'd like to avoid a repeat performance. And as strong as I am, I've used a lot of energy dragging you out of the river. I don't think I can haul you out of the tub once you're seated," John calmly explained.

"I und-derst-stand _that_," Sherlock spat, "b-but _why_ are y-you in the sh-sh-shower w-with me n-now?"

"Christ, Sherlock, because you can't bloody well stand up on your own at the moment and this is the quickest way to get you warm again," clarified the doctor.

Trying to prove differently, Sherlock attempted to push away from John, but his knees refused to do their job and support his weight. So instead of liberating himself, he only found John's arms once again wrapping around his waist. He sighed in frustration and just gave in as he realized this was a losing battle. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, really. He was still freezing and John was oh so warm. And there was the small matter of that fantasy he had that happened to include this very scenario—without the mild case of hypothermia of course.

John had gradually increased the water temperature until it was hot and steamy. When Sherlock was no longer shivering uncontrollably, the doctor shut the faucet off and retrieved the biggest, fluffiest towel they had and wrapped it around his flat mate. "Can you manage to dry off?" he asked.

Sherlock did a quick internal body scan. Once he deemed that he was in fact stable enough stay vertical unassisted, he gave a brief nod. Having obtained the confirmation, John quickly dried himself off and wrapped his towel around his hips as he strode out of the bathroom with purpose. Sherlock heard the clinking of tea cups and the kettle from the kitchen. Then before the water had time to boil, he heard John's footsteps padding down the hall to his room. There was the sound of rummaging in hall cupboard before the creak of the bedroom door. Try as he might to focus on what exactly John could have been doing, he couldn't. His brain just refused to cooperate. He felt disoriented, lost.

Before he had time to panic, John was back with him. "Come on then," the doctor ordered as he guided Sherlock into his bedroom. Immediately the younger of them saw the results of John's handiwork. His bed had acquired several more quilts. He was pleasantly surprised when he slid under the covers to find that John had also added a heated blanket. Sherlock moaned in delight as he sank down into the warmth of his bed.

"Ah, alright then. I'll be right back," John stated before he made a hasty retreat to the kitchen. Sherlock wasn't sure if he imagined the blush on his best friend's cheeks or not as he scurried out.

When John returned, he perched on the edge of the bed next to Sherlock and demanded that the hot cup of tea was to be gone within the next ten minutes. When both of their cups were empty, John collected them and got up to leave.

_Say something!_ Sherlock's mind screamed at him. There were too many times in the past where he had taken advantage of John's good nature, but the aftermath of The Fall and the resulting two years in exile had shown him that there were just certain things one couldn't take for granted. Not anymore. Not after what had happened between them. And he was extremely grateful for John's presence in his life. Sherlock tried to be more thoughtful and express his gratitude for the other, especially since he was all too aware of how close he truly came to losing John altogether.

"Wait! John! I—" he called out, but his body was racked with violent chills.

John turned back to him instantly and unceremoniously dumped the tea cups on the dresser. Without a second thought, he flung off the wet towel hugging his lower half and slid into the other side of bed. He gathered Sherlock in his arms once more before pulling the blankets securely around them.

"Body heat. Best thing I can offer you right now," the doctor answered the unasked question before it could be voiced.

Sherlock smirked into the dark. "If I w-w-wasn't fre-ee-ezing, I m-m-might find th-this enj-joyable!"

Chuckling, John just pulled Sherlock closer and kissed his forehead. "Maybe later. When your hands aren't so bloody cold!"

In retribution, Sherlock stuck said body parts into John's armpits. It was his turn to giggle as the doctor squeaked out in surprise at the chilled touch.

John huffed in feigned annoyance and demanded, "Turn over with your back to me." Sherlock did as asked and found himself enveloped in luscious warmth as John spooned him. The last thought he had before he surrendered to sleep was: _If this is what an impromptu dive into the Thames in the middle of winter gets me, I should do it more often…_


	2. Chapter 2

So now after a very pleasant sleep, Sherlock was about to have a problem on his hands if he didn't remove himself from the situation immediately. He groaned and started to pull away from John.

Of course that didn't work because it's _John_ and he never does anything like what Sherlock anticipates. The arms around him held him tighter and the doctor's breathing increased slightly to warn the consulting detective that he was now awake.

"Sherlock?" John asked sleepily as a leaned back slightly to glance at the younger man's face.

"It's alright. Just stretching. Ah…Morning, John," Sherlock mumbled, to his horror felt a flush creeping up his neck and cheeks. He quickly backed away from his partner, placing enough space between them that John couldn't see, _or more importantly feel_, his body's other reactions to his presence.

John frowned at him and Sherlock watched as the doctor persona clicked into place. "How are you feeling? You look a little flushed."

"I'm fine," Sherlock attempted to pacify.

That still didn't stop John from leaning forward and placing the back of his hand against Sherlock's forehead. Then that hand slid down to caress his cheek.

_God this is embarrassing_. The younger man closed his eyes against the onslaught of sensation, praying that the doctor couldn't read his face. But then he also knew that John could read him better than anyone—even perhaps better than Mycroft.

John smiled softly to himself. In that instance, he knew exactly what was on Sherlock's mind. But he decided to be kind and let the detective off the hook. "You gave me a right good scare there last night. I just want to make sure you don't come down with something more serious like pneumonia, which is likely given your little stunt last night."

"Oh don't be silly, John," Sherlock scoffed. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Yes, which is why Sally helped me drag your sorry arse up here last night."

"Well, that was your choice."

John sighed dramatically. "Sherlock, you couldn't even stand on your own! "

"And that's why you are now currently naked in my bed?" countered the younger man.

He felt a self-satisfied smirk creep onto his face when John blushed a deep crimson at this acknowledgement of their mutual state of nudity.

"The transference of body heat is the quickest way to warm someone up," the doctor retorted in self-defense.

"I know," Sherlock told him. "And I want you to know that I do appreciate your efforts and concern, John. I know that I'm not the easiest person to get on with."

With a snort, the older man replied, "Understatement of the decade."

"Can you just graciously accept the apology I'm trying to make to you? God, this is bad enough without your snide commentary," Sherlock snapped.

This was definitely a conversation best done sitting up, John decided. He pushed himself up and leaned back against the headboard, making sure his lower half was covered. Sherlock's sudden fit of modesty had not escaped his notice.

"Apology accepted. Look, I'm sorry if…ah…this…" John made a motion to indicate their undressed state "makes you uncomfortable. I was only concerned about your wellbeing."

"I know you were. Ever the humanitarian you are. You're a far better man than I, John."

"Yes. Says the man who jumped off a building to save his friends' lives."

That gave Sherlock pause. They both went out of their way to avoid actually talking about what happened that day at Bart's. The consulting detective looked away as he responded, "What else was I supposed to do? I couldn't let you die."

"And I think you should contemplate on what that really means for you, Sherlock," John suggested. "Perhaps it's not all 'just transport', as you're so fond of saying."

"_You're_ the one who kissed _me_ last night!" Sherlock cried indignantly, trying to shift the focus from himself.

"Yes. Yes, I did. I kissed your forehead. It's a sign of affection. I was just so bloody relieved that you were relatively okay. I can't go through losing you again, Sherlock, I just can't," the doctor warned.

"Caring is not an advantage," he murmured, more to himself than anything else.

"But you _do_ care," countered John quietly.

Sherlock stared into those indigo depths he was so entranced with. "Yes…" he answered slowly, contemplating how much to divulge. "I do care. More than I ever thought I could and definitely more than I should. It's your fault really, John."

"Mine? How is that?" the doctor demanded with a frown marring his handsome face.

The consulting detective signed and explained, "Don't you get it? I can't _not_ be affected by you! Even…before. There is just something about you, John that gets to me. And I can't distance myself from it."

"What are you saying?" John questioned, his heart started beating a little faster than was strictly necessary.

"Ugh! _I'm_ not even sure yet!" cried Sherlock as he tugged at his curls in frustration.

Whether good or bad timing—John couldn't decide which—his phone rang somewhere distantly in the flat, snapping him back to reality. "I should get that," John murmured softly as a slid out of Sherlock's warm, comfortable, inviting—_oh, for the love of all that's holy, Watson! Get a hold of yourself!_

He absentmindedly grabbed one of his friend's dressing gowns on the way out of the bedroom door and pulled it around himself quickly to ward off the chill. Sherlock watched in frustration as that beautiful, muscular, tanned arse was covered.

John's mobile was luckily on the mantle of the fireplace, so he didn't have to look too hard for it. He smiled to himself when he saw the caller ID.

"Morning, Greg!"

"Hey, John," Lestrade greeted. "How are the two of you doing?"

_Stick to the facts right now_, his mind warned, all too aware of Sherlock lounging in the next room. Sighing, he responded, "Better now, actually. Had a right scare there last night, the bloody bastard. At least his body temperature is back to where it should be and he's stable. Well, physically at least."

On the other end of the line, Lestade laughed heartily at the last comment. "You said it, mate! Glad to hear you're both doing alright. I still need you guys to come down and give me your statements—you know the drill. Whenever, there's really no rush."

"Alright, we'll come down to the Yard as soon as we can. Um, hey…you want to grab a pint later?"

"Sure. I could use a drink after this one."

"Yeah…that's what I was thinking."

"Uh oh, never a good sign there, Johnny boy! Sounds like you've got something on your mind…"

John signed and pinched the bridge of his nose as he answered, "Yes, actually I do, but…later."

"Ah, I see…" Greg said as realization dawned on him. "Sherlock got you worked up again?"

"Something like that," John responded vaguely, not wanting to go into right then, especially with the man in question listening in.

"Enough said, mate. Seven work for you?"

"Yeah, sounds good. We'll stop by later for the statements."

"Great. See ya later."

"Definitely. Bye."

Well, at least he knew Greg would understand. That took some of the weight off his shoulders momentarily. John glanced at the clock and groaned. It was only ten in the morning. Somehow he had to make it through the rest of the day with his genius, all too knowing, and—_alright, let's face it, gorgeous_—flat mate.

* * *

The rest of the day was rather uneventful. While John had been talking to Lestrade, Sherlock had gotten dressed and was his usual cool, collected self when he stepped out of his bedroom in a black suit and an ice blue silk shirt. _The same color as his eyes_, John thought absently.

Where were his thoughts going lately?! John was driving himself crazy trying to fend off the sometimes overwhelming waves of affection he felt for Sherlock. He was the doctor's best friend—he had never been closer to another person than he was to the consulting detective. It had nearly killed him—literally—when Sherlock had faked his own death. And there were things he wished he had said to the mad genius before the first part of their companionship had been cut all too short. Now, nearly two and a half years later, he was still no closer to disclosing those things to Sherlock than he had that day he watched the tears streaming down his partner's face as a babbled on about "leaving notes" from the roof of Bart's.

In those six months since Sherlock's miraculous return, the two had settled back into their tight friendship, only after two weeks of awkwardness. The consulting detective had explained just once, at length, everything that had happened between him and Moriarty to the time he spent away dismembering the criminal mastermind's web. John understood and even excepted _why_ Sherlock went to such extremes, but now there was an understanding between them that nothing like this was ever to happen again. They were a team, and therefore, would work as a team no matter how difficult the situation turned out to be.

They both acknowledged that they harbored a deep, abiding affection for the other—that was really no secret. But in the same turn, it was also by unspoken agreement that they did not talk about it. Without either of them really knowing _when_ it happened, they both realized that they were attracted to their partner. And while they worked together like a well-oiled machine, the tension between them had reached critical levels, so much so that when at crime scenes, even the most oblivious of the Yard's officers could feel it. It was damn near driving Lestrade insane. For his part, he was praying that they just got on with it already. Greg was sure that if it continued on this way for much longer, London would not be able to take the consequences.

So, needless to say, he was thrilled when John wanted to go for a pint to discuss Sherlock…


	3. Chapter 3

At precisely seven o'clock, John strode into the pub. He scanned the room for Lestrade and found the DI sitting in the booth near the back, pints already in front of him. He smiled genially and waved once he spotted the doctor.

John slid into the other side of the table with a nervous grin.

Greg motioned towards the extra beer in front of John. "Took the liberty of ordering your usual. Figured you would need the fortification." He assessed his friend with a keen eye. "You look like shit, mate."

"I ended up sleeping with him," John said without warning.

Unfortunately, Greg had just taken a sip of his beer and nearly choked on it. "Bloody hell!" he sputtered. "Warn a bloke first! Or at least make sure I don't have a mouthful next time!"

The doctor blushed furiously, "Sorry, sorry! No, umm, not—not like _that_. Just, you know, sleep and all. He was suffering from hypothermia. The sharing of body heat was the quickest way to get him warm again."

Lestrade didn't say anything, but his facial expression and raised eyebrows said more than words.

Groaning, John buried his face in his hands and exclaimed, "Oh God! What am I doing?!"

With a shake of his head, Greg leaned back in his seat and told the younger man, "You've got it bad."

"I know. This is a disaster of epic proportions."

"Not necessarily. Sherlock cares about you—that much is clear. Have you two talked about it at all?"

"Well, sort of. This morning, actually—right before you called."

"Okay. And…?"

John absently fiddled with a paper napkin. "You know we avoid talking about…The Fall…well, it kind of came up when he tried to apologize for being a git. He was acting kind of funny—you know, for him.

He was telling me how much of a better man I am than he is. I brought up what he did at Bart's…that led to him going off on how it's my fault because I make him care. I said that he should think about what that truly means to him to which he responded that he wasn't sure yet."

"Well…" Lestrade started slowly, thinking. "That's not necessarily a _bad_ thing is it? If Sherlock openly admitted that he cares about you, that's at least a step in the right direction. Besides, anyone who has eyes can see that there's something between the two of you. You've got this undeniable chemistry—hell, I could see that from the first night he dragged you along to a crime scene!"

"I know, I know! I feel it, believe me. I just…" the doctor sighed, struggling for a way to express his inner turmoil. "I just don't know what I should do or how I should feel about all this, either. I mean, yes, I have feeling for him, but at the same time…I've never been attracted to another man before. It kind of terrifies me, to be honest. It's like I have to go back and reevaluate everything I thought I knew about myself."

"Listen," Greg started with an impatient wave of his hand, "I've seen a lot in my day, and to be honest…I'm really not all that surprised you find yourself attracted to Sherlock. He is rather hard to ignore. And before you go jumping off into the dark abyss of a sexual identity crisis, let me just say that the one thing that I have discovered over the years is that sexuality isn't necessarily a fixed thing. I think it's more fluid than most people care to think about. I've always personally felt that it's more about the _person_ you're with as opposed to their gender. As they say: love is blind."

John thought about that for a minute and found that it made a lot of sense. After all, he really wasn't attracted to any other male—he had tested that out several times just to be sure—it was just Sherlock.

"Now, with you and Sherlock, I can see where your feelings for him might stretch the conventional bonds of friendship," continued Greg. "He's your best mate, you live together, you work together, you're his _doctor_ for Christ's sake! There's something to be said about the comradery you share with someone after being in some of the tight spots we've put ourselves in in this line of work. It's not something everyone can understand. God knows my ex-wife didn't."

There were several things the older man had just said that caught John's attention. With a grin he asked, "Oh, so speaking from experience then, are you?"

Greg chuckled into his beer. "You're much quicker on the uptake than a lot of people give you credit for, Dr. Watson!"

"Just because I don't always comment doesn't mean I'm not observant, Detective Inspector."

"Ah, well. You have me there," Greg acknowledged with a grin of his own.

"So…attraction, affection, formed out of comradery…anyone on _your_ mind then, Greg?" John was enjoying the playful banter between them. He always found it easy to talk to the DI.

The blush that crept up Greg's cheeks said all John needed to know. "Oh, so there _is_! Spill it then!"

With a sigh, Lestrade glanced away, staring at the wood grain of the table. "It's…complicated." He finally admitted.

John snorted. "When isn't it?"

"This is one of those occasions where 'more than friendship' could be…detrimental...to the working relationship."

"Life's too short, Greg. We both know that. Just come out and tell the lady how you feel," John advised.

At the odd look he received, John quickly added, "Or the bloke…?" Another thought crossed his mind suddenly. "You're not…ah…attracted to Sherlock too, are you?"

At that Greg threw his head back and laughed. "Nope. Definitely not. I mean, he's a good-looking man- don't get me wrong—but I don't have the patience you were blessed with in order to deal with him in that way!"

"Okay. Right. So…not Sherlock. Who then? Donovan?"

"No, no. not her either. Look, why don't we just leave it…"

"Oh, I see. So I just pour out my soul to you and now you're going to be all secretive?"

"Fine! Fine!" Greg put his hands up in defense. "Um…well…I kind of fancy…Mycroft…"

"_Mycroft_?! Are you serious?!"

Greg shot John a dark look and said, "It's no better than you fancying bloody _Sherlock_ of all people!"

John threw his hands up in surrender and tried his best to backpedal, "Fair enough, you're right. I have no room to judge. It's just…_Mycroft_? I don't know, I guess I never thought of him being the type to engage in 'sentiment' and all that…he's worse than Sherlock in that regard."

"You just have to get to know him a bit, that's all," Greg stated. At John's inquiring expression, the DI turned a nice shade of pink. "He's not as emotionally closed-off as you might think.

The doctor continued not to say anything very loudly to point where Lestrade found himself babbling on just to fill the silence. "He's actually got a great sense of humor—or at least I think so. And he's thoughtful, always knows when I've been working too long without a proper meal in the middle of a long case. He shows up and drops off my favorite take away…Sometimes when we're at a dead end, even with Sherlock's help, Mycroft will take a look at the evidence and offer new insight that we've all missed…He's brilliant."

"When did this all start?" John asked out of sheer curiosity.

Greg frowned thoughtfully into his near empty pint. Well, I've known him pretty much as long as I've know Sherlock. I arrested your beau simply to protect him from himself back when he was using. First time I met him. Was getting out of the cruiser at New Scotland Yard and this posh black car pulls up and out steps Mycroft, three piece suit—brolly and all. I promised him I would help to get Sherlock clean. We've had a tentative friendship ever since really. When Sherlock die—umm, 'fell'…we started actually hanging out more when either one of us had spare time."

John propped his head up in his hand, elbow on the tabletop. He smiled and stated, "Sounds like mutual attraction then."

Blushing again, Lestrade nodded and confirmed, "I think it is."

Laughing, the doctor cried, "The man brings you dinner! I should hope so!"

The conversation continued along a lighter vein after that. It was getting quite late and their bar tab was exceeding higher than normal by the time they both realized that perhaps they should call it a night.

As they stepped out into the cold night air, Lestrade reminded the doctor of his advice from earlier in the evening.

"Well, I'm not going to lie to myself, Greg, if that's what you're asking. We've honestly gone through too much together for me to deny that I have feelings for him that stretch beyond conventional bounds of friendship," John states. "I promise; no sexual identity crisis. I know what it's like to live without him and now…I just can't. Nothing else matters—it all just extra fluff, really, and I'm going to take my own advice for once because life is too short. And besides that, how many times do you get a second chance like this?"

Lestrade smiled warmly at his friend. "Not hardly at all, mate. Not hardly at all. I'm glad that you are trying to work this out. The two of you have been dancing around this since God knows when. Long before…well…you know. And this is a second chance. Hell, it's more like destiny slapping you in the face!"

* * *

John trudged up the seventeen stairs to their flat. His mind felt pleasantly warm and fuzzy in its inebriated state. He thought absently that he and Greg should do this more often. If John wasn't so worried about becoming an alcoholic, he might have. Best stick to the once every two weeks they had managed thus far.

"I trust that your conversation with Lestrade was enlightening?" the deep baritone asked from the recesses of the couch.

The doctor yelped in surprise and dropped his coat onto the floor, missing the coat hook completely.

Sherlock huffed in annoyance and sat up, turning his laser intense focus on his flat mate once again. "Honestly, John. You should not be so startled. You knew full well that I was here."

The doctor swallowed hard as he met the consulting detective's icy blue stare. All thoughts that had been rabbiting around in his head suddenly disappeared under that intense gaze. Something in the back of his mind was screaming at him to look away or to control his thoughts, lest they be subjected to Sherlock's all-knowing scrutiny. Even as terrified as he was about his best friend seeing his inner-most desires, he was unable to look away.

He might have imagined it, but he swore Sherlock's expression softened fractionally. "Get some sleep, John. You're obviously tired and emotionally drained. I'll see you in the morning."

John blinked several times before the words sank in. He nodded and moved off towards the bathroom to begin his nightly ritual.

Long after John had ascended the additional fifteen steps to his bedroom, forth one from the top squeaking, Sherlock sat with his hands pressed together under his chin, contemplating what he had discovered about his flat mate that day.


	4. Chapter 4

**So I kind of screwed myself over with chapter. Instead of just jumping right into the angsty /romantical porn, I decided to have the boys running around for a case. The plot monkeys were left momentarily scratching their heads at me because this was not with they intended to write...I hope you enjoy if nonetheless. :)**

**No offense meant to anyone from New York (City-to be precise) for the misuse of you accent-which is lovely, by the way...**

* * *

The next morning, John had decided that there was no time like the present. He made tentative plans to take Sherlock out to dinner that night. He wouldn't even complain if Angelo tried again to place a candle on their table.

Unfortunately for the good doctor, fate was not on his side. Several hours after their morning tea, Lestrade called about a vicious triple murder that kept the consulting detective and his blogger running all over London chasing down clues for the next eight days.

On the ninth night, Sherlock had finally tracked the murderer to an abandoned meat processing plant in a part of the city John would have avoided at this time of night had he the choice. As usual, Sherlock raced ahead, barely telling his blogger where he was going. Sensing the imminent danger, John immediately phoned Lestrade and gave him the location they were headed for. Greg had cursed loudly about Sherlock's stupidity, as the DI and his team were almost on the other side of the London. Backup would be a ways off. Fighting his rising sense of panic, John hastily made his way to killer's lair, knowing his partner would be in trouble.

* * *

As predicted, Sherlock most definitely was. In trouble. The killer was not alone, as they had previously suspected. John had cased the warehouse twice before he found a way in that would not give away his presence. With his gun at the ready, he slunk around in the shadows, searching for his best friend. When he finally located Sherlock, he texted Greg and _prayed_ the DI's team could make it in time.

Sherlock's wrists and forearms were bound together over his head and he was suspended from a meat hook by the thick rope.

John quickly calculated the likelihood of being able to take out the thugs without the consulting detective getting hurt. The doctor ground his teeth when he came to the conclusion that even with a fully loaded chamber in his gun, the fact that he was outnumbered was not tipping the odds in his favor. There were a total of five men, including their suspect, and it appeared they were also all armed. There was no way he could take them all out before one of them shot Sherlock first.

He got a break when one of the goons wandered over to his dark hiding place. When the six foot something skinhead had his back turned, John stealthily took him out from behind. As quietly as possible, he dragged the unconscious man further into the shadows and left him there. _One down, four to go_, he thought grimly.

Somewhere in the massive stone room, a rusty piece of machinery roared to life. John decided to chance exposure and edged a little closer to find the source of the noise. Had he been a lesser man, the doctor would have quaked in terror upon realization. Luckily, he was not. If nothing else, John was a soldier and he would follow through with this mission just as he had every single one before it. He refused to think about the gruesome consequences if he didn't succeed—failure was not an option, after all. And doubly not an option if the person you were madly in love with happened to be hanging like a cattle carcass from a meat hook. A meat hook that was slowly inching its way towards a duel row of vertical carving blades…

* * *

_Oh, bollocks!_ He thought once he was able to finally shake himself out of the dazed fog permeating his brain. The side of his neck stung from where they had stabbed him with the mild tranquilizer. Hanging from a hook with his hands tied together was not his favorite way to come back into consciousness. Luckily it had only happened twice before, and that one time he had rather enjoyed it. Though something told him this time wouldn't be quite so pleasant…

"Hey, looks like our _friend_ has finally decided to join us!" a voice stated to his left.

_American—New Yorker accent, heavy smoker._

"Hello, Sherlock Holmes," the man said as he stepped into the consulting detective's line of view.

He was momentarily surprised to be looking into the face of a ghost.

The man from New York sneered up at him. "There you go! I knew you'd recognize me! Though you were far more familiar with my twin brotha, Tony."

_Tony. Tony Mallory, illegal arms dealer—supplier to the criminal underground. Ran largest prostitution ring ever seen in London since the Victorian Era…extradited back to America for serial murders of sixteen women in seven states. Received the death penalty in Virginia five years back. Vengeful sibling. _Wonderful_—what a dull way to end a perfectly intriguing case._

"So you're here to avenge your brother's death," Sherlock declared in a tone of annoyance.

The twin smirked. "Well, if you hadn't caught onto his little side operation, he woulda never been sent back home and da Feds would still have a stack of cold cases hauntin' 'em. Tony, me, and our motha should be loungin' in da friggin' Cayman Islands sippin' bottomless drinks outta coconuts right now! So yeah. You messed up da plans, Homie."

"Next time I will try and take into consideration the sinister master plans of each common criminal I come across," Sherlock retorted snidely.

Evil twin laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, ain't that cute?! _Next_ time! There ain't gonna _be_ a 'next time' for you."

"You'll have to excuse me, but if you were out for revenge, you are a little slow on the uptake. It has been nearly six years, after all. One would think that if avenging your brother was your real motive for all this, you would have tried years ago," the consulting detective remarked in a voice that portrayed how very clearly uninterested he was in the proceedings.

"Eh. I was on probation, couldn't leave da country. And when I did come here for da first time, I found out that you had offed yourself by jumpin' off a building! Imagine how surprised I was when one of my buddies calls me and says 'you ain't gonna believe this! That genius who caught Big Tony, he's back from da dead!' Well, you can see how I just had to hop across da pond and say hello."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. This conversation was becoming tedious, though he knew that the longer he kept the idiot talking, the more time it bought for John and Lestrade to get there. "So you decided to stage a nice triple murder to capture my attention? Boring."

"Aww, see—dat's where you're wrong!" the man cried gleefully. "You noticin' was just a side bonus. Those douche bags had it comin'. Old scores and all. They had nothin' to do wit you so don't flatter yourself."

He discreetly tested his bonds, but it seemed that whoever had tied him up knew what they were doing. From the strength of the knot—_nautical_—and the nature of the coupling, he assumed that one of the men must have been in the navy. _It wasn't Mallory, despite his size, there is an obvious weakness in his right arm and hand…judging from other movement patterns (like his unsteady gait). Clearly suffers from cerebral palsy. Ah! So that accounts for that unusual cut marks found on the bodies! I didn't account for in my initial assessment. Must keep that in mind for next time…but never mind that. Where the _hell_ is John? I can't keep this moron engaged all night._

"But no matta," the evil twin continued. "I just wanted to hi to you before I got ridda you." And if right on cue, a monstrous machine sputtered to life. Mallory flashed Sherlock a smile of pure evil. "I just _love_ abandoned processing plants! They come in so handy! Got one in New York I like to keep…operational too."

The hook the detective was hanging from was ultimately attached to a suspension conveyor belt that jerked into motion just seconds after the machine started. That was when Sherlock finally noticed the dual vertical blades that were meant for sawing in half bovine carcasses. _Oh, joy! What a lovely way to end the evening_, he thought sarcastically to himself. He had hoped that his night would have ended quite differently than the way it was turning out.

"Sal! Gino's gone missin'!" one of the random thugs yelled out.

Mallory rolled his eyes and shrugged up at Sherlock as if to apologize for his minion missing all the fun. The evil twin turned to the man and hissed, "Then go find him! _Christ_—wadda I pay you idiots for!"

Sherlock kept his face a stone mask, but internally, he was dancing with glee. A missing hit man surely meant that John had understood his directions earlier and had arrived at last. Lestrade couldn't be that far off either; he knew that his blogger was likely to have informed the Detective Inspector just shortly after Sherlock ran off again on his own. That was why the consulting detective had givem his doctor the address in the first place.

Somewhere behind him there was the sound of a scuffle and loud shouts, which could be heard over the bellow of the machine's rusty engine. When he heard gunshots fired, Sherlock instinctively went to duck, but the movement was futile. Mere seconds later, it was as if a SWAT team had descended on the empty warehouse. _Oh, good! Lestrade's finally here_.

"Someone turn that bloody thing off!" Greg shouted.

The conveyor belt stuttered, then lurched forward at an even quicker pace.

"Fuck! The _other_ direction!"

"It's jammed! The lever is stuck!"

"Do something!"

The consulting detective, under normal circumstances—well, normal for him—never panicked. It was a useless emotion that clouded judgment and made one act impetuously. As he drew within meters of those dull, rusty blades, he came close to it.

"Sherlock! Hang on!" John cried out. The doctor aimed his pistol and rapidly fired off three shots, severing the corroded hook from the rest of the conveyor belt. The consulting detective silently thanked his blogger's sharp shooting abilities as he dropped to the ground.

He had braced himself for the inevitable impact with the hard concrete below. Instead, he was being caught in John's arms, the doctor breaking his fall. They both crashed to the floor regardless, but Sherlock was at least saved from a broken ankle or a knee injury.

"Oh, God! Sherlock! Are you alright?" John asked, frantic, his hold tightening around him even more.

"I'm fine, John. Really. I just—" he went to answer, but was stopped mid sentence when he looked up and found his blogger's face mere inches from his own. John glanced down at his mouth and licked his lips nervously. Without conscious effort on either of their parts, they both leaned in at the same moment and—

"What did I tell you about pulling a stunt like this?!" Lestrade roared as he stalked over to the consulting detective and the doctor. "Did I or did I not _specifically_ ask you not to do this kind of thing _again_, Sherlock?! Twice in a little over a week! Do you have a death wish?! I might just kill you myself to save us all the trouble of having to eventually clean your corpse up from some God-forsaken back alley somewhere…"

At Greg's outburst, Sherlock felt John stiffen and he suddenly lost the warmth of his blogger's embrace as he was abandoned to the DI's wrath.

"Look what you've done, Lestrade! You've scared John off!" the consulting detective accused with an icy glare.

Greg looked murderous, meeting the younger man's eyes fearlessly. "_You've_ done that to him, Sherlock! Are you so blind that you can't see what's in front of you?! Did you ever stop to think how you selfishly running off on your own like this effects _him_? He panics, Sherlock—panics, because it's like Bart's all over again to him. Don't you get it? And no matter how hard we try—if you keep pulling these stunts of yours—one of these times, we won't be able to make it before something happens. I've already had to bury you once, goddamnit! I refuse to bury you both!"

"Honestly, Lestrade—"

"No! You shut up and listen for once!" hissed Greg. "The _only_ reason John is still here with us today is because your brother and I took turns keeping an eye out on him. We had to secretly remove all the weapons from your flat for fear that he might try something stupid. Mycroft took his gun after he attempted to use it once. If you were to truly end up dead, there is no way we would be able to stop John. So if you can't more careful for my sake, please, just do it for his—if you care about him at all."

For once in his life, the great Sherlock Holmes was left speechless. He was dimly aware of the ropes being cut away from his wrists. Without being aware of how he got there, the consulting detective found himself sitting on the back of an ambulance, a bright orange blanket embracing him like an old friend.

"Why have I got this blanket? I'm not in bloody shock, alright?" Sherlock snapped at whoever would listen.

"Well, I beg to differ. You clearly seem to be," an achingly familiar voice said at his left elbow.

"John…" he breathed. Sherlock felt whatever had seized his chest since Greg's outburst finally eased as he gazed at his blogger's easy parade rest stance. The sight was familiar and warm, like how he felt upon waking up to John in his bed the morning after his wintery swim last week. It finally dawned on him that what he was feeling was _fear_. But it wasn't for himself, it caused by him realizing how close he had come to actually losing his blogger. He wasn't sure he could deal with that, losing John.

"Do you think you can walk? We should go home," John asked quietly, concern written all over his features. "Unless you want to go to the hospital…?"

Sherlock was so busy staring into those beautiful indigo eyes, he nearly missed the question. "What? No—home. Home is good."

The doctor nodded. "Right. Well, then. Let's get a cab and get out of here."

* * *

**Author's Note:** OMG-does the meat hook scene ring any bells to anyone else? Was that a blatant rip off of a Robert Downing Jr/Jude Law picture? Although I like the idea of Sherlock hanging there instead of Irene-so much more visually appealing :D Yeah-so Captain Evil called me out on that while she was rereading this for me. I had honestly forgotten where the idea came from when I was initially writing it. Great idea though! I promise M rating for next chapter! There will be hot boy love!


	5. Chapter 5

**I just want to take the time to thank everyone who has favorited, followed, and reviewed! **

**And here is the promised boy love! Hope that I have not disappointed... (This also happens to be the longest chapter *wink*, if anyone is keeping track...2,271 words just for the sex scene alone-too much?)**

* * *

The cab ride home was a rather tense one, filled with awkward silence that neither was comfortable with, but unwilling to break nonetheless.

John sat with all the rigidness of his army training. His hands were resting on his thighs, clenching periodically. He had his face turned away from his flat mate, staring out the window into the cold, black night.

Sherlock watched the doctor; the older man's face reflected off the glass as they passed under street lamps. John's mouth was set into a hard line and his eyes were sad—his whole expression was one fo wary contemplation. This just brought Lestrade's comments back to the forefront of his mind once again: "_…it's like Bart's all over again to him. Don't you get it?...We had to secretly remove all the weapons from your flat for fear that he might try something stupid. Mycroft took his gun after he attempted to use it once. If you were to truly end up dead, there is no way we would be able to stop John…"_

_Surely John wouldn't do it…would he? There were worse things in life than the having to face the death of your flat mate/best friend—but no—that's not exactly what we are anymore. We are still those things, but we are something more as well, something undefined_. He thought back to how he felt upon learning that his blogger might have not been there to return home to, the mind-numbing fear that had gripped him. The consulting detective hadn't been able to fully shake it off yet, and if he was quite honest with himself, he wasn't sure it was something he ever _would_ be able to.

This led the genius to consider everything that had happened between them since making the doctor's acquaintance. Hell—everything that had even happened in the past six months since his return. Too many things were left unsaid between them, too much hanging in the balance. They could pretend it wasn't there, like they had prior to The Fall—but not again. That hadn't worked out so well for them in the past, now had it? Unresolved issues being what they are...

He was Sherlock Holmes, after all—a man of action. He had spent a long time contemplating this thing involving him and John. They had come too far for him to back out and pretend nothing was happening—or as the case may be—_already_ happened between them. He wasn't about to get cold feet now.

At the metaphor, he nearly laughed out loud at himself. After all, this whole thing had really started with a case of hypothermia—so literally cold feet. _Maybe shock is a proper diagnosis_…

Sherlock made his mind up. They needed to face these unresolved issues that were hanging between them. If they didn't, it could very well end up eating them alive.

* * *

The ride back to Baker Street took too long. John was out of the cab first, leaving Sherlock to throw a wad of bills at the driver in order to catch up, a sense of urgency prodding him to move faster. If the doctor reached his bedroom before the detective got the chance to confront him, Sherlock wasn't sure whether or not he would last the night.

Sherlock bound up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He stepped into their flat and found John standing in front of the fireplace, staring into the cold ashes as if they held the secrets of the universe. _Maybe they_ _did_, the consulting detective thought.

He slipped out of his Belstaff and flung it unceremoniously onto the back of John's chair before he stepped up behind his blogger.

"Tell me why Mycroft took your gun," Sherlock demanded.

John sighed heavily and gripped the mantle tighter, his knuckles whitening under the strain. "Sherlock—just leave it, please."

"No. Absolutely not. I will not just leave this alone until you tell me why," the detective warned. "Mycroft and Lestrade would not have taken it unless they had a justifiable cause to do so."

"You're not going to drop this until I answer, are you?"

"No, I won't."

Another sigh. "Fine. After…The Fall…I was lost. I felt empty. Nothing was exciting anymore. Nothing had meaning anymore. As time went on, it became harder to breathe, not easier. 'Time heals all wounds'—that's utter crap. I know for a fact it doesn't. One day I woke up and just didn't want to go through another endlessly monotonous day of pretending everything was okay…"

"You didn't realize Mycroft was still watching you," Sherlock realized.

With a humorless laugh, John responded, "No. I didn't. Somehow I wasn't surprised though when Greg showed up just seconds before I pulled the trigger. Your brother wasn't far behind."

"You're an idiot."

"So I've been told."

"John…"

"What do you want me to say, Sherlock?" John questioned softly. "I'm absolutely smitten with you. I have been since…well…I don't know when."

"Baskerville."

"Baskerville? What do you mean?" the doctor was confused. He finally turned around and faced his partner, much to Sherlock's relief.

"It's when you finally stopped proclaiming to the world at large that you're 'not gay'. Then after the Reichenbach Falls case, you were so concerned about what others might think of me when I myself didn't care. I saw you that day, in the cemetery you know. You asked me for a miracle. I know how much you suffered in my absence. I hate myself sometimes for being the cause of it," Sherlock rattled off.

This was the second time in past week that they had touched upon the forbidden topic of The Fall. It was also the amount of times that the genius has nearly ended up in an actual grave within the past ten days. It had left John frazzled and sullen, having just bared his heart on his sleeve to have this thrown in his face.

"And what would you know about how much I suffered?!" he snapped.

Sherlock gnashed his teeth together and growled in frustration as he stalked over to John. The younger man grabbed onto his biceps with so much force, it was just shy of being too painful.

"Because you idiot," Sherlock yelled, "I suffered too! Every day that I was away from you, I felt like I had died. In that horrible time of my absence, I was only all too aware that I had a heart because it was shattered, John! Shattered! The only reason it's started to mend at all is because I'm here again with you!"

John reflexively took a step back out of shock. "Wh-what?"

"You heard me perfectly well. I'm not repeating myself."

John's expression softened considerably. "Well, you'll have to excuse me. I've just heard the Great Sherlock Holmes admit to having feelings. For me, of all people."

"Of course. If I was going to develop…_feelings_…for anyone, it would be for you, John," the consulting detective answered. His eyes reflected a warmth that the older man had never seen before.

The doctor took a step closer to his best friend. Before he could think about what he was doing, he raised his hand and caressed an ivory cheek. The skin was so much softer than he ever imagined it to be.

"And what would the extent of those feelings be?" He was almost afraid to hear the answer.

Sherlock quirked a small smile and placed his hand over John's. "I've spent a lot of time asking myself the same question."

He briefly closed his eyes to collect his thoughts before meeting the doctor's indigo gaze. "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Therefore, the only conclusion that makes any sense is that I am in love with you."

To his horror, John felt a prickle behind his eyes. He tried desperately not to let it show. But of course Sherlock saw it, he saw everything. The consulting detective reached over with his free hand and brushed away the tears staining his blogger's cheeks.

John stood on his tiptoes and hesitantly touched his lips to Sherlock's in a chaste kiss.

As he rocked back down on his heels, he was thrilled when his partner followed. The consulting detective captured his mouth, breaching the seam of his lips with his tongue. John was all too happy to oblige and opened fully to let Sherlock in.

Sherlock moaned contently as he explored every millimeter of John's oral cavity, committing to memory every curve, every dip, every tooth shape. His doctor tasted just as he imagined—like tea, minty toothpaste, and a sweetness he could only describe as being essentially _John_. The slide of his blogger's tongue on his own was amazing, the sensation stirring a passion in him that he never thought he possessed until that moment.

He had gone a lifetime without want for physical and sexual contact, but now he _needed_ everything from John. The consulting detective wanted those lips and tongue to do nothing but worship his body. He wanted tanned leather skin again his ivory marble. He needed John touching him, surrounding him, in him. Sherlock thought that nothing short of total and absolute possession would ever be enough now that he had a taste.

They broke apart, panting heavily. They gazed at each other in wide-eyed astonishment.

"Wow. Umm, okay. That was—" John huffed.

"Bloody brilliant!" Sherlock supplied.

At that moment, the two burst into a fit of giggles. When their mirth died down, they gravitated towards one another like magnets. This kiss was heated and animalistic, full of teeth and tongue. Sherlock crushed his smaller companion to his body. John growled—_growled_—into his mouth when he felt the detective's erection digging into his hip. It only fueled the doctor's own passion and he soon found himself achingly hard.

Clothes were too much suddenly. John felt like he was on fire. He gripped the bottom hem of his jumper and broke away from Sherlock's mouth just long enough to yank it off over his head. The consulting detective immediately started to unbutton his blogger's collared shirt, working with deft efficiency. John's shaking hands found their way to Sherlock's. Both eager for skin-to-skin contact, they struggled out of the cuffs that trapped their wrists.

Sherlock's brain nearly short-circuited when he felt the slide of John's chest against his own. The doctor was like a furnace—he was almost so hot that his touch seemed to burn. But it _still_ wasn't enough.

"Bedroom!" he gasped and tugged his blogger in the direction of his room. Their lips locked again as they stumbled forward, hands grabbing at belts and zippers.

By the time they fell onto Sherlock's mattress, they were both naked and frotting against each other. It felt so good! Too good.

_God, it's been too long since I've had sex_, John thought as he glided further down Sherlock's pale body. He needed to make this last longer. While the friction was amazing, the doctor knew he would come within minutes if he didn't switch things up a little.

Though he had never been with a man before, he was quite confident in his abilities—there was a reason his army mates called him 'Three Continents Watson', after all. John had done some research on gay sex in the past few weeks when the sexual tension between him and Sherlock had reached critical mass. He also had the advantage of knowing what he personally liked with certain things, so he used that to guide him as well. John caressed his fingertips over the sensitive skin of Sherlock's inner thighs, dancing around the long, throbbing erection that was in front of his face.

Sherlock grit his teeth in frustration. John was purposely ignoring the one area he wanted so desperately for his blogger to pay attention to. Then finally, _finally_, those tanned rough fingers wrapped around his straining member, providing just the right amount of friction. The detective found this much more enjoyable than his own hand. He was convinced that he would be content to let John spend the rest of his natural life between his legs.

Then, quite unexpectedly, his doctor did something he not prepared for. John's hot breath ghosted over the tip of his cock. Sherlock moaned loudly as his doctor's tongue probed at his slit, licking away the bead of pre-cum leaking from it. But the torment didn't stop there—it only increased as that hot mouth slid further and further down his shaft, engulfing him in unbearable heat.

The consulting detective fisted the sheets in his hands, trying to ground himself against the onslaught of sensations John was causing him. He could feel the slow burn of pressure start to uncoil from his stomach. At this rate, he was going come in his blogger's talented mouth.

John's gaze lingered over the prone form beneath his. Sherlock was flushed, panting, and impossibly hard. The doctor shivered and tried to rein in his lust. While he thoroughly enjoyed foreplay, he had to move things along again, or else risk embarrassing himself horribly. He pulled off that beautiful organ and slithered back up his soon-to-be-lover's body.

"Tell me what you want, Sherlock," John demanded huskily as he nipped at the pulse point in the detective's neck.

The younger man angled his head to the side and moaned as a wandering hand dipped down to fondle his balls.

"Take me." He blurted out. _Not what I meant to say—wait, yes, yes it was!_ His brain thought that John inside him was by far the best idea it had ever had.

The doctor stilled suddenly at his request. "Are you sure?"

"Yes! More so than I have ever been in my entire life."

"This is kind of a bid deal—we don't have to—"

"John! I am aware. I want this—with you. I have waited thirty-five years for this. I'm sure."

"_Christ_…" John moaned and gave a nod in acknowledgment.

Sherlock motioned with a hand towards the night stand. Not needing a second hint, the doctor scrambled over it to. After a brief search in the drawer, he discovered a brand new bottle of lube.

He applied a generous amount to his hand prior to rubbing the tip of his index finger in maddeningly gentle circles around the virgin entrance of his genius. Then John slowly pressed that first finger in up to the knuckle, allowing Sherlock to get used to the feeling before going any further.

This sensation was…different. It was definitely not something he was used to, but not altogether unpleasant. The consulting detective wasn't entirely convinced on the idea of penetrative sex, though. He was sure there had to more than this, especially if John of all people liked to indulge as often as he did in the past. When he felt a second finger slip in, it was mildly uncomfortable.

He was just about to vocalize this when one of those fingers crooked and hit his prostate with a physician's precision. Sherlock gasped as his body bowed off the mattress. He had never felt something so pleasurable in all his life.

The detective didn't need to glance down at his blogger; he knew the smug look he would have found on the older man's face. _Rightfully so_, he thought. He rocked back down against the digits, fucking himself on John's hand. He barely noticed when a third finger was added.

Slick, wet fingers slid in and out of him with practiced ease, teasing him with feather-light caresses on his prostate. Sherlock fisted the bed sheets, trying to ground himself amidst the increasing waves of pleasure crashing over him. He threw his head back and called out his lover's name, begging for more, pleading for sweet release from this most exquisite torture.

John was in awe, watching his mad genius flat mate come completely undone by his touch. Sherlock, who was always so cool and collected with nearly everything, was quite passionate in bed. The doctor was pleasantly surprised to learn that the consulting detective was rather vocal. The obscene sounds Sherlock emitted were only serving to fan John's libido to record high levels. _God, he'd never felt this turned on by _anyone_ before!_

He needed to calm down or risk the chance of doing something he might regret. His lust-fogged brain was barely keeping itself from resorting to base animal instincts. But has he tried to pull away, long fingers scraped at his shoulders, pulling him back.

"Don't…" Sherlock pleaded, alarm shining in his bright eyes. In that instance, he seemed so vulnerable that the doctor's heart ached.

"Shh, it's alright," John assured him as he lightly caressed one sharply angled cheekbone. "I'm not going anywhere, love. I just need to breathe before I completely lose control."

The detective's sharp gaze roamed over his blogger's face. John, for his part, tried to show his sincerity and kept an open expression on his face. When he was finally satisfied with whatever he saw, Sherlock nodded and slid a hand up to the back of John's neck. "Kiss me," he demanded as he pulled the older man down to meet him.

This kiss, while no less passionate than the ones they had just previously shared, was a slow sensual burn. It expressed all the emotions and words they could not yet verbalize to one another.

With their lips still locked, John slowly slid into Sherlock. He felt his partner flinch. The consulting detective broke away from his mouth and gasped.

The doctor rested his forehead against his lover's, stilling his movement. "Breathe, sweetheart. Relax, it will hurt less."

Sherlock nodded and blew out the breath he had been holding, relaxing into John's arms. When his blogger was sure that he could move without hurting him, he pushed in until he was fully seated within the detective. The doctor made shallow thrusts in and out, letting his lover adjust to the feeling of being completely filled. Slowly, John started to increase his rhythm.

"Oh, _God_!" Sherlock cried as John's cock bumped against his prostate.

It had felt wonderful when his doctor's fingers had found that magic spot moments ago, but this…this was something else entirely. The pleasure immediately overrode the pain. This felt better than any drug, any adrenaline rush ever had. The detective suddenly understood why people enjoyed such a base activity.

And as the beautiful column of flesh, velvet over steel, sank into him repeatedly, Sherlock felt like coherent thought was slipping further and further away. He was vaguely aware of John pausing momentarily to coax the detective's legs around his waist.

He moaned and threw his head back; arching his back up. The new angle caused John to drive into him impossibly deep. It was too much and not enough all at the same time. The heat that had been pooling low in his pelvis spread outward, and he felt like he was on fire. Sherlock clawed at his partner's muscular back, leaving bloodied groves in that tanned expanse of skin

"_John!_"

John's breath was ragged in his ear, hot and humid. "It's okay, I'm here. Just let go, Sherlock."

With those words, Sherlock surrendered to the inevitable pull and climaxed without any stimulation to his erection. His brain shut down completely and he saw stars dance in front of his eyelids. There were no words for this; his vast intellectual vocabulary failed to even be able to categorize what he was experiencing.

John's own release followed on the tail of his lover's. He was barely hanging on as it was, but the look of ecstasy on the detective's face and the way his muscles contracted around his cock drove him over the edge.

Very carefully, he pulled out of the younger man then collapsed down onto the bed next to Sherlock. The doctor grabbed a corner of the now rumpled sheet and cleaned the sticky mess off his partner with care. He then discarded it over the side of the mattress.

Sherlock stared wide-eyed at John for a long few minutes, unable to do anything other than breathe short little huffs of air. Finally, when he was capable of speech, the genius asked in a whisper, "Is it always like this?"

John's expression was full of tenderness and love as he responded quietly, "No, not always. Only when you care about the other person more than anything else."

"Has it ever been like this for you before?"

_In for a penny, in for a pound_, the doctor thought as he gently brushed an ebony curl off his lover's sweaty forehead. Aloud he said, "Never."

"I've never let anyone into my life this far before," Sherlock whispered.

John's heart ached again with the vulnerability of that honest declaration. He knew what his consulting detective was trying to say—he was special, the exception to almost every rule.

"I'm honored that you chose me," John told him.

Sherlock smirked and remarked, "As you should be."

The doctor gasped in mocked offense. "You wanker!" he declared, even as he pulled Sherlock closer to him.

The consulting detective chuckled as he buried his face into the side of John's neck and tightened his grip on his blogger's ribs. John's arms made him feel like he was treasured and safe. It was amazing and overwhelming…and perfect.

They lay like that for some time, neither willing to break the spell.

John was sure that Sherlock had fallen asleep when he heard the deep timbre declare, "I love you."

"I love you, too, Sherlock. More than anything in the world."

The both succumbed to slumber with smiles on their handsome faces.

* * *

The pearl grey light of the early morning filtered though the curtains, casting a soft glow around the room. John smiled to himself as he listened to the rain tap against the window pane. He loved mornings like this, especially when he was snuggled into the warmest, softest bed he'd ever slept in.

"Morning," Sherlock murmured as his thumb caressed John's jaw line.

The doctor opened his eyes to gaze into those icy blue depths he so adored. He had a moment of vertigo where he felt like he was drowning, flying, falling all at once. The consulting detective smiled knowingly as he leaned forward and captured his lips in a sweet kiss.

When they finally pulled away from each other, Sherlock said, "I seem to be suffering from a strange ailment, Doctor. I find that I need to wrap myself around you. No matter how much I try otherwise, I feel my hands burning to touch you…"

"Hmm. Strange ailment indeed," John replied, playing along.

"Any suggestions? Is there a cure?"

Trying to keep a straight face, the doctor answered, "I'm afraid there is no cure for your malady."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth tugged up. "But surely a medical man of your genius could think of something to remedy this…?"

"Well, there is one thing…"

"Oh? Do tell, Doctor."

Giving into the grin threatening to break across his face, John stated, "Well…I would recommend that you take it easy and spend the rest of the day in bed."

"Mmm…John, that is by far the best idea you have ever had. Brilliant."

After that, they spent a long while communicating without words.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thank you, my darlings, for reading! Hope you enjoyed it!

I figured that if Sherlock would ever confess his feelings for someone, he'd probably do so in an angry huff and blame them for it...lol

My eternal thanks to Captain Evil-the plot monkeys love that you are a stern, unforgiving mistress! hahaha! (They also said they want bananas the next time you come over...)


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